


i can ride my bike with no handlebars

by kittenstyles, scientits (donedirection)



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Sport Relief 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:49:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1348045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenstyles/pseuds/kittenstyles, https://archiveofourown.org/users/donedirection/pseuds/scientits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Did so good today, Nick, so proud,” Harry says, nuzzling his face against Nick’s knee. Nick had already received an endless stream of texts of encouragement and praise from Harry throughout the day, but these compliments are decidedly more pointed.</i><br/>-<br/>(Post Nick's bike challenge)</p>
            </blockquote>





	i can ride my bike with no handlebars

**Author's Note:**

> You can find us on tumblr!  
> Brittany - [scientitss](http://scientitss.tumblr.com)  
> Vee - [kittenstyles](http://kittenstyles.tumblr.com)/[kittengryles](http://kittengryles.tumblr.com)

By the time Nick gets up the front steps, he’s not even sure which part of his body hurts the most. There’s a dull pain that’s settled into the space between his shoulders and burrowed its way to the bottom of his spine. But that pales in comparison to the deep ache in his thighs and calves, muscle spasms going off like fireworks up and down his legs. Possibly the most disconcerting is the pain in his bum. It’s definitely, definitely sore, but there’s a sharp burn where it meets the top of his thighs – _what do you even call that? the crease?_ – that seems to rule out sitting for the foreseeable future.

Harry stands from his seat before Nick has even closed the door behind him. “How is it? Doctor said we should alternate ice and heat, which do you want first?”

“Oi, I’ve not even got my shoes off yet,” Nick says, but reaching down to untie his trainers was more difficult than he'd expected.

“Sit, I’ll do it for you,” Harry says, already gathering Nick’s bags up off the floor and placing them on the couch. 

Just the thought of sitting sends a weak wave of pain through his bum, washing away any semblance of pride he’d been holding onto. “In one of those bags, there’s like a rubber ring, yeah? To protect me poor arse from the couch.”

Harry doesn’t laugh – of course he doesn’t laugh – just digs through the bag of Nick’s sweaty gym clothes to find the ring, placing it on a cushion and gesturing for Nick to sit down.

Nick settles in. It’s not comfortable but it’s definitely an improvement compared to the cab ride home. Harry settles on his knees between Nick and the coffee table, gingerly placing Nick’s foot against his thigh. Nick balks at the way a small breath catches in his throat, seeing Harry on the floor like this. _Keep it together, Grimshaw,_ he reminds himself, _your best mate  – who is maybe sometimes more – untying your shoelaces because you’re too sore to do it yourself is hardly something to get winded over. In fact, it’s pretty pathetic._  

But Harry’s eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, as he delicately tries to undo the knots – they’d been coming undone far too easily on the bike, so Nick may have triple- or quadruple-knotted them. Something about seeing Harry from this angle, between Nick’s legs, his face only barely visible beneath his mop of hair, has a familiar warm heat snaking through Nick’s stomach.

Once the knots are untied, he loosens the tongue with a tug and gently pulls the sneaker up at an angle until it slides off Nick’s foot. He runs his hand down Nick’s calf as he places that foot back on the floor and gets to work on the second shoe.

As Harry unties what seems to be a particularly tight knot, his tongue peeks out from between his lips in concentration, and Nick’s leg jerks up involuntarily. Harry makes a soft humming noise and looks up quizzically from underneath his lashes, which is decidedly _not_ helping Nick to regain composure. 

“Just a muscle spasm, innit? Twelve hours on a bike and all.”

When Harry finishes with the second shoe, he leaves his hands resting on Nick’s knees and flickers his gaze up. Nick tries to remind himself that Harry is tactile with everyone, that these touches shouldn’t surprise him, shouldn’t disarm him every time. The fact that they’d shared the odd drunken snog or late night blowjob didn’t make these touches _special_.

But that doesn’t keep him from feeling hyper-aware of all the places Harry’s fingers meet his skin, doesn’t keep him from feeling like a dizzy teenager.

And sometimes Nick’s convinced there _are_ touches specially reserved for him. Sometimes Harry’ll wrap himself around Nick when they’re cuddled on the couch watching rubbish telly, and rest his hand on top of Nick’s. Sometimes he’ll let his gaze rest a moment too long on Nick’s mouth while he’s keeping Nick company at work.

Nick knows there’s something there, but he also knows that it’s fragile, not fully formed, and he’s always afraid to tip the balance either way. Harry’s hardly in London these days, and Nick genuinely likes having him around, likes having him as his best mate. There’s nothing he wants less than to ruin that by asking for more. He feels like they’re both suspended in space and he has to calculate his movements so as not to disrupt their delicate balance.

So instead he waits, sucks in a sharp breath and forces himself to remain perfectly still. He can feel his heart hammering in his chest and in his throbbing limbs, can feel the flood of white noise in his brain as Harry’s thumbs rub small absent-minded circles against his knees.

“Right,” Nick says, finally breaking the silence and wincing a little bit at how rough his voice sounds. He clears his throat and continues, “Wine and paracetamol, then?” 

Harry’s mouth curves into a small smile, and he stands to go to the kitchen. Nick’s not sure if it’s post-bike delirium, but he thinks he can see Harry’s half hard dick through his jeans. _Christ_ , he thinks, and lets his head fall back onto the couch. The thought of Harry getting excited just from untying his shoes – something so simple, so domestic, so subservient – is making his head swim.

Before he has a chance to gather himself, Harry is opening his hand to place two paracetamols in his palm and offering him a glass of red. But instead of taking the seat next to Nick on the couch, Harry returns to his place at Nick’s feet.

“Did so good today, Nick, so proud,” Harry beams, nuzzling his face against Nick’s leg. Nick had already received an endless stream of texts of encouragement and praise from Harry throughout the day ( _“Hiiiii, you’re gonna be great today! Will be listening the whole 12 hours! Okay, whole 9 hours.. just woke up. Jetlag is no fun” “That “hangover feeling” is called dehydration. I’m texting Finchy to bring you more water,” “Oops cycyle.”_ ), but these compliments are decidedly more pointed. Harry runs a hand up past Nick’s knee and beneath the hem of his shorts.

Nick runs a hand fondly through Harry’s hair, letting it come to rest on the side of his face. Harry turns his head to take two of Nick’s fingers into his mouth, looking up at Nick to gauge his reaction.

Nick sighs. Even on the best of days it’s hard to pretend that he doesn’t just _want want want_ Harry all the time, but today he’s incredibly tired and sore, and the thought of taking refuge in Harry’s warm mouth is as tempting as it’s ever been. 

“You wanna show me how proud you are?” Nick says softly, pushing his fingers further into Harry’s mouth. Harry hums around them, nodding his head and reaching his hands up to get at the waistband of Nick’s shorts, tugging them down.

Nick lifts his hips, wincing as the elastic band of his shorts passes over his bottom. Sitting bare-arsed on a rubber ring should not be sexy at all, but Harry is kneeling between his legs, looking up at him wide-eyed and hungry, Nick’s fingers still hooked in his mouth.

He pulls his fingers out of Harry’s mouth with a wet pop - which is hotter than it should be – and traces his index finger along Harry’s bottom lip, feeling the warm exhale of Harry’s shallow breath. 

“Get to it then, love,” Nick says, loving the way Harry scrambles to get a hand on the base of Nick’s dick and lowers his head to take the tip into his mouth. It’s hardly anything, but it’s warm and wet and so distinctly Harry that Nick can’t help but hiss out a breath of relief and sink back into his seat, just barely letting his hips press forward.

Harry takes the hint and grabs onto the back of Nick’s thighs to steady himself as he presses Nick further into his mouth. Nick lets out a startled yelp.

“Ah, Haz, Harry, legs are still really sore, babe.”

Harry pulls off quickly, straightening up and pulling his hands to his chest, lest he risk touching any other sore bits. “Sorry, sorry, are you okay?” he stammers. His eyes are full of concern, but Nick can’t stop staring at his mouth, lips already swollen and slick with spit. “We don’t have to if you don’t want. We can wait until you get better.” 

Nick huffs out a soft breath, halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “I always want. You know that,” Nick says, gesturing for Harry to bring his face closer to Nick’s, and pressing a placating kiss to his lips. He can just barely taste himself on Harry’s lips, but it’s enough to make his stomach turn with arousal. “Maybe just no hands, yeah?” 

Harry’s eyes grow visibly darker, and his voice is breathy when he says, “Yeah, yeah, I can definitely do no hands.”

Nick had imagined that Harry would place his hands on the floor, or on the edge of the couch, or in his lap, so it makes his breath catch in his throat when he sees Harry pull his arms behind his back and clasps his hands together.

Harry leans forward until his lips are almost touching Nick’s cock and breathes, “Is this okay?”

Before Nick has a chance to respond that Harry restraining himself while he sucks Nick off is definitely more than okay, Harry catches Nick on his tongue. He drags his tongue upward, circling it once around the head before taking Nick back in his mouth. 

Harry lets his jaw go slack and lowers him mouth halfway down Nick’s cock. He swallows the spit that is collecting his mouth, before sliding the wet ring of his lips back up to the tip, and then sinking back down a little further than the last time.

Nick sighs, reaching down to push Harry’s hair out of his face, giving him a better view of Harry’s mouth stretched around him. Harry bobs his head, taking a little more of Nick into his mouth on each stroke, until his nose is brushing against the short hair at Nick’s base. Nick’s hand tightens in Harry’s hair as he feels Harry’s throat flutter around him.

Harry pulls off, coughing and spluttering, a string of spit and precome bridging the space between Nick and Harry’s mouth. Nick wants to tell Harry how filthy and gorgeous he looks, but Harry is already darting back down to take Nick in his mouth, fingers still clasped together so tightly that his knuckles are turning white. 

The way Harry’s arms are straining backward makes his collarbones protrude, peeking out from the low cut of his shirt. And Nick wants nothing more than to lay him down and mark him up. Instead, Nick settles for placing a hand beneath the collar of Harry’s shirt, feeling Harry’s muscles strained and taut under his heated skin.

This time when he feels the entrance of Harry’s throat flutter around the tip of his cock, Harry doesn’t stop but lets out a harsh breath through his nose. And something about the way Harry is trying so hard – eyes watering, breath ragged – makes Nick jerk his hips upward.

He starts to mumble an apology, but Harry moans low in his throat, and starts bobbing his head faster. Nick’s eyes flutter shut as he feels the velvety heat of Harry’s mouth around his cock.

“Fuck”, he chokes out, unsure if he’ll ever be able to think about anything other than Harry Styles getting off on choking on his dick again.

“You’re so good, Harry, so good,” he says, tilting his head back and trying to even out his breathing, one hand tightening in Harry’s hair, the other still clutching at Harry’s shoulder.

Nick feels something knock against his shin, and when he opens his eyes, Harry has one of his hands in front of him, unbuttoning his jeans and pulling out his cock, which looks flushed and painfully hard. He presses a thumb against Harry’s collarbone, and Harry’s hand stills, looking up at Nick from beneath his eyelashes.

To be honest, Nick is impressed that Harry has managed to keep his hands off himself for this long, but something – perhaps the memory of how dark Harry’s eyes had gone when Nick asked him not to use his hands or how unbelievably hard Harry is just from sucking him off – makes him want to push this further. “Thought I said no hands, popstar,” he breathes, giving Harry’s hair a rough tug.

Harry groans, sounding equal parts aroused and disappointed, but returns his hands behind his back, head continuing to bob, desperate to get Nick off. If Nick got to see Harry like this every time he rode a bike for twelve consecutive hours, he might have to change his career to professional cyclist.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Nick groans, hand tight in Harry’s hair and hips sputtering, “So close.”

Everything goes static when his orgasm finally washes over him. He’s barely aware of his sore bum or his aching limbs, just the pleasure ripping through him and the fact that he’s coming inside Harry’s mouth.

When Harry pulls back he looks wrecked already, eyes wet with tears and lips wet with spit, and – _Jesus Christ_ – he’s swallowing Nick’s come. 

“You wanna touch yourself, Harry?” Nick asks, gesturing for Harry to get on the couch next to him.

Harry nods vehemently, and clambers up to where Nick just patted, dick hard and flushed against his stomach, tip wet with precome. He gets a hand on himself, spreading the wetness, before starting to pull at himself in earnest. He’s panting, face turned toward Nick.

“C’mon, love, you did so good. I want you to come for me,” Nick says, before pressing his lips to Harry’s, and placing his own hand around Harry’s. Harry makes a keening sound in the back of his throat, and spills over both of their hands.

As the minutes pass, Nick becomes increasingly aware of the aches in his body, and of the fact that he is currently sat pantless on a rubber ring in his living room. Harry is slumped over, head leaning on Nick’s shoulder. “S’nice,” he muses, placing his still sticky hand on top of Nick’s. “Maybe when you feel better you can fuck me proper.” 

Nick nearly chokes on his own spit, but places a hand on Harry’s knee and says, “Yeah, we can definitely do that.”

Harry tilts his head to press a soft kiss against the corner of Nick’s lips, “You never told me, which do you want first, ice or heat?”

 


End file.
